


Seeds of Order

by beautyofsorrow



Category: Star Trek: Picard
Genre: BUT WE DID NOT GET A CONVERSATION, F/F, SO HERE IS THAT CONVERSATION, STAR TREK IS FOR THE GAYS, THEY HELD HANDS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:06:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23404984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautyofsorrow/pseuds/beautyofsorrow
Summary: To quote Tuvok, "The goal of kal-toh is not about striving for balance but about finding the seeds of order even in the midst of profound chaos." Or, Raffi and Seven held hands and I was like hold up I need more.
Relationships: Raffi Musiker/Seven of Nine
Comments: 21
Kudos: 145





	Seeds of Order

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS for all of Star Trek: Picard's first season. It's been 84 years since I've written fanfiction and even longer since I've written Star Trek fanfiction so forgive me for any errors or blunders or general rustiness. Also since I last wrote I have figured out I'm gay so that explains..........a lot of things. Please enjoy my first foray into these perfect dumbass space gays.

She takes her time in the shower, letting the sonic waves pulse over her, lifting the dirt and sweat and blood from her limbs. The bruises will be gone by morning, provided she gets a good night’s sleep and gives her nanoprobes a break from moderating the constant adrenaline of the last twelve days. But even with their working overtime she’s barely standing upright.

She knows her exhaustion has more to do with emotional trauma than anything else. Facing Bjayzl, rescuing Elnor, killing Narissa, mourning Icheb and Hugh and Picard. Rejoining the Collective. Seven leans against the shower wall, drops her shoulders and presses hard to let the pulse sink deep in her skin. Three days and her spine is still tender, hot and swollen to the touch. She wonders why the nanoprobes haven’t soothed this ache. Three days and they’ve skipped right over it, mending instead a split lip, a swollen ankle, a minor cut on her shin. She wonders if it’s for a reason. If it’s meant to tempt her back.

It’s like a drug, the Collective. A drug that numbs and soothes, that lifts away her loneliness as cleanly as the sonic shower sloughs the dirt from her limbs. Three nodes, _chunk chunk chunk_ , and just like that she’d been back, linked to the voice she’d dreamed about for over twenty years. It was exhilarating. Terrifying. It had shaken her very core. Even after they, it, whoever she’d become—even after it released her, she’d trembled an entire day. Wanting and not wanting and then wanting again to go back.

But it’s over now, she reminds herself. The Artifact crashed. The Collective released her. The synths have sheltered the xBs and given them a home.

Seven straightens and taps off the shower and steps through the opened door. Her skin glows rosy with the heat of the shower and hums in the aftershock of its waves. She dresses slowly, taking time to examine her injuries in the fresher’s hard bright light. Her ribs took the brunt of Narissa’s beating—a kick here, a punch there, a purpling bruise sprawled across her right side. Already it’s tilting toward yellow; another day and it will be gone, just the barest of aches, subtle, diffuse. Seven grabs a shirt and slides it over her head. Shrugs on her jacket. Doesn’t stop to look at the scabbed-over wounds socketing down her spine.

Outside her quarters, she pauses, fingers tapping her thighs. She considers the places she could go and settles on sickbay, thinking to pick up painkillers, hoping Jurati won’t be there to catch her snooping and insist on fixing her spine.

Seven rounds the corner and turns toward sickbay but stops when she sees Raffi in the mess hall. At first she thinks the woman’s in pain, hunched over the table like that, but as she steps closer Seven sees the kal-toh set, the bottle of whiskey, the deeply irritated frown.

“First time?” she asks, gesturing toward the jumble.

“If I say yes, would this be less embarrassing?”

“How long have you been playing?”

“This game? Two hours. In general? Twelve years.”

Seven straddles a chair and eases down next to Raffi, plants her elbows on the table. “Most Vulcans start lessons at the age of five.”

Raffi’s eyes widen. “ _That_ ’s supposed to make me feel better?”

Seven shrugs. “It’s a difficult game for most humanoids. Two of my coworkers spent twelve hours on one match.”

“Oh, no thank you, I do _not_ have that kind of patience,” Raffi says, lifting her hands.

Seven breathes out a crooked smile. “Tuvok, on the other hand, had nothing but patience. He saw Harry as something of a pupil. Could have beaten him in six hours, but let him drag it out twice as long.”

“This was on _Voyager_?”

Seven nods.

“Do you miss it out there? In the Delta Quadrant?”

“Sometimes,” she admits. “In a lot of ways it was easier. _Voyager_ was a bubble.” Seven smiles, a quick twist of the lips. “A noisy, nosy, infuriating bubble, but a bubble nevertheless.”

Raffi regards her. “You’ve had a rough few days, haven’t you?”

“A rough few years.”

“Yeah, well, I think we’ve all had that.”

“So,” Seven says, picking up a _t’an_ , “how are you holding up?”

Raffi shrugs. “Pretty well, considering I just watched my captain die, called my ex in pajamas, and nearly shot five years of sobriety out the airlock when my son refused to see me.”

“Sounds like a normal Tuesday to me,” Seven quips, which earns her a laugh. “Seriously, though, how are you holding up? Addiction’s a bitch. Especially out here.”

“Mm, yeah, the final frontier and all that shit.” Raffi sighs. “I’m doing okay. Mostly. The stuff with Gabe—my son—that’s old news. I knew he didn’t want to see me before I set foot on that planet. I guess Picard’s goddamned optimism just…rubbed off on me.”

Seven snorts. “You’ve got that right. It’s gonna take weeks to reclaim my cynicism.”

“He should come with a warning. _Prolonged exposure may result in sudden proclivity for harebrained missions, Earl Grey tea, incurable optimism. All of the above._ ”

Seven tries to laugh softly but it bursts into a giggle, and soon they’re both doubled over, shoulders shaking with mirth.

“My god,” she says when she’s finally able to straighten. “I needed that. It’s been too long.”

“How’s your back?” Raffi asks, so casually that Seven almost forgets to be surprised. “Elnor told me,” Raffi quickly explains, closing her fist around a loose _t’an_.

“Well, I suppose that means he’s told everyone.”

“Probably.”

“And that Dr. Jurati will pop in at any moment insisting I visit sickbay.”

“Most likely.”

Seven sighs. “It’s fine. Hurts like a bitch, but it’s fine. I think my nanoprobes are ignoring it. Trying to convince me to go back.”

“And re-assimilate the xBs?”

“You can take the Borg out of the Collective, but you can’t take the Collective out of the Borg…”

Raffi is silent for a long moment, and when she speaks again her voice is tentative, probing. “Earlier, when you said addiction’s a bitch…you spoke from experience, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And the Collective is your drug of choice.”

“Yes.”

“And when you linked with them…you were afraid you’d lose yourself.”

Seven presses her thumb against the tip of the _t’an_ until it hurts. “No,” she says finally. “I was afraid I’d find her.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I did.” A long pause. “But she—” Seven’s voice catches. She pauses, swallows, tucks her hair behind her ears. “She uh, she let me go.”

“Well,” Raffi sighs out, palms slapping the table. “I will absolutely drink to that. Sit tight while I grab another glass.” Raffi stands up and the tension drains from Seven’s shoulders. She feels lightweight, buoyant, a giddy thrill in her chest.

Raffi returns and straddles her chair, knocks her knee against Seven’s in the process. Seven is suddenly aware of the woman’s warmth, the pressure of her leg, the faint herbal tang of her earthy perfume. Seven studies her as she measures out the whiskey, resists the urge to reach out and tuck her hair behind her ears, caress her jaw, cradle her cheek.

She’s still studying her when Raffi finishes pouring and offers Seven a glass. “To letting go,” she says.

“To letting go,” Seven echoes. They down the shots and set the glasses on the table. Raffi’s hand rests lightly half an inch from Seven’s glass.

Seven leans forward and lifts her hand, circles her finger around Raffi’s knuckle, followed by a feather-light touch of the thumb. Raffi’s lips part and a tiny breath sighs out. Seven pauses. Raffi shifts closer, settling her arm on the table. Seven spreads her fingers and Raffi raises her hand, watches as Seven slowly laces their fingers together. Her skin is warm, nicked with scars and the rough bumps of calluses, so different from Seven’s and yet somehow the same.

Raffi looks up. Seven tilts her head. They smile.

Seven squeezes.

Raffi squeezes back.

Fin

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Seeds of Order, by beautyofsorrow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24387691) by [Thimblerig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig)




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